


Numquam Sanare Vulnera

by MiladyMorningstar (PrincessPestilence), robyngirlwonder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (It's kind of expected with a Triwizard fic sorry), Angst, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Multi, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Triwizard Tournament, Warnings and tags will be added as the story is written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25818400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessPestilence/pseuds/MiladyMorningstar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/robyngirlwonder/pseuds/robyngirlwonder
Summary: Numquam Sanare Vulnera - Wounds that Never HealWhen Hogwarts is blindsided by another Triwizard Tournament, Harry Potter must face his trauma from his own tournament experience as well as face his tumultuous and complicated feelings for the chosen champion along the way.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is mainly the result of listening to various songs from the soundtracks of the Hunger Games movies and having a plot idea that won't leave me alone.
> 
> I'm giving the biggest shout-out to my bff MiladyMorningstar for helping me with character creation/development, for giving me the title, and also being there for all my writing woes. Go read her stuff, it's fresh as hell.

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall sat rigid in her chair. Rage simmered inside her. “With all due respect, Mr. Weasley, haven’t these students been through enough?”

“I’m sorry Headmistress, our hands are tied.” Percy Weasley tangled his fingers anxiously in his lap. It took all his courage to maintain eye contact with the steely glare of his former Head of House. “The Department of Magical Games only recently came forward with the plans The Department of International Magical Cooperation have been working on in secret for the past year.”

Minerva arched a perturbed brow, her lips pursed. “I see… And they went to the press before receiving approval from the Ministry?”

Percy swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

The headmistress hummed in response. She folded her hands in her lap as she tried to maintain her composure. “Did it, perhaps, occur to Minister Shacklebolt to deny the proposition regardless?”

“Yes.” Percy sighed. “He’s been fighting with the Wizengamot almost daily. However, both Headmaster Nikiforov and Headmistress Maxime have already stated their approval. And now, with the public response, it will be detrimental for him and his policies to reject it.”

Tense fingers pinched at the bridge of Minerva’s spectacles. “So the benefit of wizarding society at large will once again fall on the shoulders of this generation?”

“Y-yes.” Percy looked shamefully at his lap. “Unfortunately it seems that way, yes.”

The headmistress huffed before taking her glasses off and folding the delicate golden wire frames and placing them on the edge of her desk. “Very well.” A humorless chuckle left her lips. “Then I guess my hands are tied also.”

She paused to give herself enough time to breathe and to keep her tone calm and even as she replied. “Alright. I guess I will have to give my blessing, much to my chagrin.”

Percy flicked his eyes back up to meet Minerva’s, his voice solemn and apologetic. “Thank you Headmistress.”

“However, I must ask you to notify the Ministry on my behalf that this will be the last Triwizard Tournament Hogwarts will participate in for as long as I am headmistress.”

Percy cleared his throat nervously. "Of course." He cast a quick Tempus and sighed. “I must get going.”

Minerva gave her former student a silent nod of her head and watched as the ginger man walked towards the door of her office. Apprehensive fingers drummed against the rich mahogany as he paused and tentatively turned back around. “Headmistress?”

“Yes Mr. Weasley?”

He worried his bottom lip with his teeth and gave a deep sigh. “I truly am sorry about this.”

She gave a forlorn smile to the man. “As am I.” 


	2. Bittersweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm still figuring out how I should warn and tag as I go and I just want to throw it out there that this chapter deals with dissociation and panic attacks if that isn't your thing.

A gentle summer breeze ruffled Harry’s curls as he sat at the edge of the bank of the Great Lake where lush green lawn melded with coarse dark sand. He hugged his arms around his knees as he looked off to the small tree lined island in the distance. Dumbledore’s tomb: the only evidence on the lake that there had been a war fought on the grounds of the castle. The lake’s surface remained as still as ever despite everything that happened. It was a bittersweet feeling.

It had a taken a year for the trials and rebuilding to take place. McGonagall had sent a letter to those who would have completed their Hogwarts education the previous spring to notify them they could return for an “eighth” year and finish properly with N.E.W.T.s in tow. She had also stated in her letter that eighth year students were allowed to enter the grounds prior to the day of the opening ceremony. She reasoned that they were all adults and could be trusted to make it back to school as they saw fit.

It almost felt as if the war hadn’t happened at all, like it was just a nightmare Harry had woken up from. He couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or not. So many people had lost their lives, had lost a part of themselves or their family. To have the wizarding world recover so quickly made him feel slightly hollow. 

Harry dug the toe of his trainer into the gravel still wrapped up in his thoughts. Perhaps, it wasn’t a bad thing. Grieving forever was impossible, perhaps even irresponsible. Maybe it was a sign of strength to press forward in spite of those lost, like the plots of all those Great War documentaries Harry had been forced to watch with the Dursleys. 

Despite his mixed feelings, he couldn’t deny the peace he felt being back at Hogwarts. To watch her transform from singed rubble back to her former glory was perhaps more rewarding than defeating Voldemort. Hogwarts had been his true home for six years and here she would stand for decades, perhaps even eons more. 

A gentle nudge against his foot forced him out of his thoughts. He stared at the navy toenails blankly for a moment. “Ginny?” He unfolded his arms and looked up at the smirking redhead.

“The one and only.” She gave him a playful wink. One arm was on her hip while the other was relaxed against her side, her hand clinging loosely to her brown leather sandals. She gestured to the empty spot on Harry’s left. “May I?”

He gave her a warm smile in return and nodded his head.

Ginny gently tossed her sandals in the grass before sitting cross-legged beside her ex-boyfriend. They made it work for a while after the war. They were the Daily Prophet’s golden couple. “The shining light of young love giving Wizarding England hope for the future,” Rita Skeeter had written. If you had asked Harry, that would have been better fitted for Ron and Hermione or Seamus and Dean.

The constant saccharine poetics written about their relationship made both of them nauseas. They were two teenagers trying to figure out how to be “normal” as two celebrity war heros in a post-war world and dealing with trauma along the way. In the end, their coping mechanisms was what brought the end to their romantic relationship. Ginny threw herself into quidditch and family while Harry threw himself into following the trials and rebuilding Hogwarts. The passion that kept them both alive during the war fizzled out and replaced itself with a deep platonic love for one another. They were each other’s first love and for that, there would always be a deep fondness. 

Ginny dug her toes into the sand and twirled at a blade of grass with her fingers. “Are Ron and Hermione still in Hogsmeade?”

Harry stretched out his legs and wiggled them to get the blood flowing again before he answered. “Yeah.” 

Ginny bit her lip and sighed. “Harry?” She turned to face the bespectacled man and laid a gentle hand on his denim clad knee. “Are we good?”

Harry swirled abstract patterns on the back of Ginny’s hand with his finger. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we be?"

“I don’t know.” Her other hand tapped against the sand. “It’s just… Being back here is weird and I wanted to make sure before things get hectic.”

“Yeah.” Harry stopped his fingers and blanketed the tan freckled hand with his own scarred brown one. “Don’t worry Gin, we’re good.”

She laid her head on the wizard’s shoulder and they fell into comfortable silence.

* * *

The older students began to file into the Great Hall. Harry tilted his head to look at the cosmic ceiling adorned with floating candles. After all these years, it still left him in awe.

“Amazing, ain’t it?” Harry beamed at the equally mystified voice of his best friend. 

Ron stood with his hands in his pockets beneath his open robes, eyes cast up towards the ceiling above.

Harry nodded his head silently in agreement.

The doors of the Great Hall swept open with a loud clang. Both men whipped their head towards the noise of Hermione’s brisk steps thundering through the hall. 

“Sorry,” Hermione puffed, “I thought I was going to be late.”

They answered the witch with soft matching smiles.

Harry rolled the crick out of his neck as Hermione and Ron sat opposite of him at the Gryffindor table. “So, how was Hogsmeade?”

He threw his head back in laughter at the matching blushes forming on the couple’s cheeks.

Ginny slid down the bench with the speed and agility of a seeker to wolf whistle the already embarrassed couple before settling herself to Harry’s right.

Harry’s stomach fluttered as more students and professors filled the hall. He was giddy. So much blood, sweat, and tears had gone into rebuilding. To see the shock and awe in the eyes of the students made it all worth it. It was a fresh start for everyone, a new era.

It would be naïve to think that from now on Hogwarts would be danger-free, but for the first time since Harry first walked through the mystifying doors at eleven, he felt safe. There was no dark lord, no prophecy. It was as freeing as it was intimidating. He’d been conditioned all his life to brace himself for the next challenge. Adrenalin and gut instincts were what kept him alive for so long. To ignore the tingling in his veins at sudden movement, the tensing of his shoulders at the faintest sound, the intense need to check every dark corner twice felt unnatural. Years of battle at such a young age had left their scars on his mind and body, but Harry truly felt like a blank slate. He could finally look towards the future without the incessant need to attach an asterisk of “if.” 

Harry couldn’t fight the bright smile that stretched across his face as the first years filed in for the Sorting Hat ceremony. He whooped and cheered for every house, even Slytherin which had a surprisingly large amount of new students all things considered. After the past few years, house rivalries could wait for quidditch season. Professor McGonagall had emphasized the importance of unity in her welcoming speech and he was all for it.

Supper flew by quickly. Harry hummed in delight and closed his eyes gently as the sweet caramelized taste of treacle tart hit his tongue. He’d dreamed of this moment since walking through the damaged corridors with the volunteers to meet in the solemn quiet of the Great Hall on the first day of rebuilding. The war had wounded everyone to some degree. Some days were a struggle to get by. Meals were simple and efficient due to exhaustion for both volunteers and the house elves manning the kitchens. The grandeur of the Welcoming Feast was one more symbol of victory, one more symbol of survival and perseverance.

Harry’s eyes popped open as he heard the soft drumming of Ron patting his stomach. “It’s so good to be back,” the ginger man said with a satisfied grin. He snorted at his best friend before nodding his head in agreement. He savored his last bite of tart and waited for McGonagall’s closing announcements.

The greying witch stood at the podium in deep emerald robes. She adjusted her spectacles before grasping the edge of the ancient cherry wood with long elegant fingers. Suspicion tingled at Harry’s spine as he noticed the minute tension of her grip. He forced himself to shake the feeling away. 

“It has truly been a wonderful night. It would be an understatement for me to say that seeing the Great Hall full of students once more has been the highlight of my career…”

McGonagall’s words faded away while Harry’s suspicion only grew deeper as he noticed the tightness at the corner of her lips and small furrow of her brow. He swallowed uncomfortably.

“…I take the safety of my students seriously…”

Blood dully throbbed in Harry’s ears. His stomach twisted in knots. Something wasn’t right.

“…As you know, there have been rumors of Hogwarts hosting another Triwizard Tournament to boost morale amongst our community…”

Harry’s breathing became laboured. He could hear his racing heartbeat in his ears and the world around him was blurring at the edges. In his panic he lunged for Ginny’s hand beneath the table. She whipped her head to stare at him with wide, concerned eyes. Her warm chocolate eyes quietly flashed with understanding and gripped his trembling hand in her comforting embrace. There was a hollow echo weaving itself into McGonagall’s voice as she wedged the final nail in the coffin.

“…It is with a grave heart that I must confirm those rumors. I will let the designated students know more information once it becomes available to me.”

The world around him became warped and muddled.

No.

This couldn’t be happening.

Harry missed the alarmed gazes shared between Ron, Hermione, and Ginny as McGonagall dismissed them from the hall. 

The walk back to the dorms was hazy. Harry didn’t know how or when he made it to the dorm he shared with Neville and Ron as he stared at the mottled red velvet of his bed curtains. He took off his glasses and rolled onto his side and forced himself into a fitful sleep.

For the first time in years, Harry dreamed of Cedric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't quite know how I feel about this chapter to be honest (Harry sweetie, I'm so sorry) but I'm going to keep on truckin' because things are going to pick up soon, I promise.


	3. Boiling Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... you know how I said things would pick up soon? Well, had I gone with my original plan, the tonal shift of this chapter would have been very abrupt and weird. I chose to split it up into two instead but we're getting there, pinkie promise.

Minerva slammed the Ministry letter on her desk. “Their sheer audacity!”

Kingsley Shacklebolt leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He released an exhausted sigh. “I’m so sorry Minerva. I’ve tried everything but they’ve got the Wizengamot wrapped around their finger. They’ve overruled me every time I’ve objected and requested a re-vote. I’m afraid we’ve ran out of options.”

The headmistress exhaled out of her nose like a dragon as she tried to remain composed. “Then what was the point of rebuilding the bloody castle and allowing the students back if I’m just going to throw them to the wolves, Kingsley? What was this all for?” Angry tears pricked at her vision.

He gave the witch a long meaningful look. “I wish I could answer that.”

The former colleagues were interrupted as the fireplace came to life with a flash of green flame. Percy stepped out onto the hearth, his hands wringing erratically. He cleared his throat. “I regret to inform you that our… guests are running behind and will be here shortly.”

Minerva huffed. Kingsley could sense the tension radiating off of the witch. “Would you like me to put on the kettle?” He got up to search through a cabinet off to the side of the headmistress’ desk. “I can brew some of that stress relief tea Poppy made for you if you’d like.” 

The witch hummed indifferently. She brought her fingers up to her temples and began to massage them. What she could really use was a stiff drink, perhaps several, but she still had classes to teach afterwards.

Soon the trio sat in tense silence. The only sound in the chamber was the gentle hiss of water boiling. Percy jumped up from his seat as soon as the kettle wailed. He summoned three cups and saucers with his wand and began to serve the tea. 

Minerva’s fingers gripped tightly on her spoon as the fireplace came to life once more. Her nostrils flared as the thorns in her side appeared in the flesh.

Percy placed his tea on the edge of the desk with faintly trembling fingers. He cleared his throat nervously. “Headmistress, this is Rémy Dujardin, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Mortymer Tuft, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.” 

Dujardin was a tall lanky man with strawberry blond hair and hazel eyes. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties. He looked like he was teetering on the edge between man and boy, the sparse wisp of a moustache above his lip only emphasizing that fact. He stood in indigo robes just a hair too large for his lithe frame. He looked more like an actor playing the role of a politician rather than the actual politician he supposedly was.

Tuft was Dujardin’s total opposite. He was a short stout man that looked like the picture example of politician. He was middle aged with a thick salt and pepper beard with a balding patch of hair to match. He stood in dull grey robes that seemed like they were supposed to compliment his watery blue eyes. He looked like the kind of man that would chat Minerva up at a Ministry function and talk to her about the war as if she hadn’t been on the front lines herself.

Dujardin flashed Minerva a toothy grin and had the nerve to take her free hand in his. “Madame, or should I say mademoiselle?”

Minerva wrinkled her nose and pushed his hand away. “I’m old enough to be your mother.”

Kingsley snorted into his teacup. 

The young man adjusted his robes awkwardly at the snub.

Minerva’s lips were a pursed thin line as she scanned the two with disgust. “Forgive my lack of politeness, but quite frankly, I do not appreciate your presence nor do I appreciate your tardiness.”

Tuft cleared his throat with a deep harrumph. “Well, finalizing the tournament is quite time consuming.”

“Of course.” Minerva’s knuckles turned white around the handle of her floral teacup.

Sensing the growing tension, Dujardin stepped in to continue the conversation. “We’ve corresponded about housing for the upcoming year as well as the outline for the semi-finalized tasks,” his eyes darted between Tuft and Minerva, “what are some of your concerns?”

Minerva raised a stern brow. “With all due respect Mr. Dujardin, being so obtuse will not guarantee you a long career in politics.”

The young man’s gaze wavered. “Well… But… Had I been given the opportunity to represent Beauxbatons, I surely would have taken it. It’s the honour of a life time.”

“That is, of course, if it is fully voluntary.” Minerva’s patience was running thin.

Tuft barged in to the conversation, his face growing ruddy with frustration. “To be frank Headmistress, you and the former Headmaster know more than anyone, that this is fairer. The results won’t be tampered with.”

Minerva’s veins trickled with ice cold rage. “I’m well aware, but this is barbaric and I can’t with a good conscious stand by and simply allow the lives of my students to be used as a pawn for political gain. They’ve been through enough and I stand firmly by that.” The man’s beard shook violently as he spluttered in outrage. 

Percy looked to Minister Shacklebolt in panic. This was escalating quickly. The dark skinned man signaled his secretary with a reassuring hand. He’d strategized and fought alongside the witch in the Order of the Phoenix. She could handle herself just fine.

Tuft took a deep breath which allowed the blotchy pink to leave his cheeks. A shark like glimmer flashed in his beady eyes. “Forgive me for my outburst, Headmistress. I just feel so passionately about this event. It has the chance to bring unity to the whole of Wizarding Europe. Imagine that. You could go into the history books for this, luv. Perhaps the Ministry might even be able to contribute more funds to maintain the illustrious reputation of this school from the capital this tournament will bring.”

 _‘Luv.’_ The bastard had some nerve. Minerva brought the forgotten tea to her lips so she wouldn’t be tempted to chuck the porcelain at the infuriating man’s head. “You think me for a fool if I’m going to be swayed by glory and riches Mr. Tuft.”

“Very well.” He gritted his teeth and took another breath. His nostrils flared with growing exasperation. “My hands are tied, Headmistress. It would be a shame if we had to bring forth a vote to the Wizengamot because the Head of Hogwarts refused to comply with Ministry rule. I’m sure we could find another qualified educator that would be more than willing to participate in future tournaments.” 

Minerva and Kingsley shared a silent look. The witch’s body thrummed with anger as she gingerly placed her cup on her desk. She slid her wire glasses back in place before folding her hands on the desk. “As you must know, I fought in the war as a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I refuse to be intimidated, Mr. Tuft. My decision stands firm.” She cast a wandless Tempus charm and gave the group of men in her office a pointed look. Her tone was terse and straightforward. “Now if you excuse me, gentlemen, I have lessons to prepare for. Good day.”


	4. Not

_Fog cloaks the ground as the decaying earthy musk of moss invades his nostrils. The clear black sky dabbled with dull starlight whirls around him as he tries to regain equilibrium. The world around him finally settles as two strong arms clad in canary yellow lift him from the dew covered grass. There’s a dull burn forming behind his eye as he wills his shaky legs to keep upright on the uneven ground. His pulse throbs beneath his skin. The area is viscerally familiar._

_The metallic stench of rusting iron and the smell of wet stone waft into his nostrils as he stumbles through the graveyard. It feels like his eye is on fire while his veins fill with ice as he’s pulled forward towards a specific grave. He no longer feels in control of body as he’s tugged closer like dog being choked on a leash. He collapses in pain as the unidentified force drags him to the tombstone. Familiar terror floods his bones and his lungs are squeezed by panic. It’s getting harder to breathe as he reads out the all too familiar name written on the eroding granite: Tom Riddle._

_Bile trickles in and out of his throat like stormy waves as he whips his head around desperately trying to find Cedric to warn him. His body trembles as he fights against the pain wracking his body to stand. He makes eye contact with the older chestnut haired boy and screams for him to leave but no sound leaves his throat. His cries get desperate as cold stone arms constrict his ribs and he’s yanked off the ground. It feels like his vocal chords are ripping from the volume of his screams yet Cedric seems not to hear him at all. His eyes bulge in fear as the world around him blurs and a filter of acid green floods his vision before everything goes dark._

Harry jolted up from his bed. He gripped his bed covers with white knuckle force as he gasped for air. Sweat and tears blended together on his flushed cheeks. Trembling fingers combed wildly through his damp matted hair as he regained his bearings. He pushed off the covers and shakily maneuvered himself into a sitting position, his legs securely crossed beneath him. His clammy hands hugged his ankles as he began to rock back and forth. He took deep breaths to try to re-center himself. 

When that didn't work, he crawled to the side of his bed and pushed away his bed curtains so he could stare out the window. Harry sighed. Dawn was quickly approaching. The faint light gave hint that the rich green of summer was slowly exchanging hands with autumn as trees became mottled with red, orange, and yellow. In any other year, the changing of seasons would have brought him a sense of delight. Even in his darkest times, where the threat of danger loomed, he could find a sense of celebration since there were feasts and holidays to look forward to. However, as September shifted to early October, Harry could only feel dread. Each day was just another day counting down towards the hellish circus of the Triwizard Tournament. Each night was a promise that his nightmares would become more descriptive and violent, more real. It made him ill just thinking about it.

Harry closed the curtains with a bitter huff and laid back down on the bed. He folded his arms behind his head and stared at the sea of velvet crimson above him. A gentle puff of air escaped his lips as he counted the rhythm of his breath in his head. He closed his eyes with trepidation and forced himself to try to go back to sleep.

* * *

Harry woke to Ron’s hand gently shaking his shoulder. “C’mon mate, we’re gonna miss breakfast.” He acknowledged the ginger man with sleepy humph and rose from his bed. He stumbled out of his pajamas and into his robes in a daze. His footsteps felt unnaturally heavy as he met up with Ron in the common room. He quickly blamed it on his disrupted sleep and forced himself to ignore it.

Worried cerulean eyes searched his face as they sat on opposite sides of the Gryffindor table. “You alright, Harry?” 

Harry swallowed thickly. Ron and Hermione had proven themselves to be loyal loving friends ever since he’d met the two at eleven. Hell, they were family. He knew he could confide in them about anything and everything yet somehow there was always a guilt when he was completely honest with them. They all had their own traumas, many of which overlapped with one another’s but he still had this constant nagging thought that he shouldn’t burden them with his problems.

The sincerity in Ron’s eyes forced Harry to be honest. He bashfully shook his head no. 

Ron looked over to see if Hermione was still absorbed in her book before he mouthed, “nightmares?”

Harry bit his lip and sighed before nodding yes. Ron returned the nod. His brows slightly furrowed. The ginger wizard gently leaned across the table and offered, “if it gets to be too much, you can come to me y’know?”

Harry swallowed again, his voice thick with emotion. “Y-yeah.”

Ron’s protective scowl deepened. “I mean it Harry. ‘Mione comes in my bed all the time.”

A gurgled choke startled the men apart.

Ginny’s voice was raspy as she coughed out, “Merlin’s saggy ballsack, Ron!” The witch paused to wipe stray droplets of pumpkin juice from her mouth. “Warn a girl before you start talking about your sex life at breakfast!”

Ron’s eyes widened in horror. His face immediately turned into a red gradient as if an artist had dipped their brush into watercolour and swiped it across paper. He spluttered in embarrassment. “That’s not… I didn’t m—I mean… Well… it’s not like that _all_ the time!” The violent slam of a book against the table had the wizard’s body going rigid. “Christ, Ronald!” Hermione’s face mimicked the shade of Ron’s face as she looked at her boyfriend in outrage.

“Ugh, my ears!” Ginny cried as she massaged her temples in a poor attempt to exorcise the scarring mental images from her head.

“E-excuse me…” A blushing Neville quietly grabbed the pumpkin juice pitcher and filled his goblet before awkwardly shifting away from the chaotic trio to return to his conversation with Luna.

Had Harry not been so exhausted he would’ve been doubled over from laughter. He could only muster a small lift of his lips. His mind was miles away. A thick mist of anxiety drizzled around him. Something felt amiss. 

Ever since the Welcoming Feast, he forced himself to acknowledge his instinct that the year could go south at any moment. Naïve hope had settled into resigned anticipation. 

His eyes aimlessly wandered the Great Hall. There was a clench in his gut when he accidentally made eye contact with Professor McGonagall. The witch paled and her lip trembled as she returned his gaze. His stomach dropped as the sensation of pins and needles pricked all over his skin. He shuddered and broke eye contact first. 

No.

Not now.

“Harry?” Hermione’s hand traveled across the table and she softly brushed her fingers across his own in concern. “Is everything alright?”

“Y-yeah. Just tired.” Harry ignored Ron’s penetrating gaze and the guilt forming in his belly. He looked shamefully down at the table and reluctantly grabbed a piece of toast.

The rest of breakfast was a mechanical affair. Harry counted his bites of toast and his sips of juice. Anything to avoid the suspicious stares from Ron and the worried glances from Hermione.

The quiet authoritative clearing of Professor McGonagall’s throat rattled violently like thunder in Harry’s head. The remaining crust fell from Harry’s trembling hand as he waited to be lead to slaughter.

Minerva’s throat was tight as she drummed her fingers once more on the edge of the head table before making one final silent plea for strength and stood. “Years First through Sixth are excused. I must speak to Years Seventh and Eighth in private.”

Confused murmurs rumbled through the hall. The headmistress’ chest began to ache. She motioned to her fellow professors to assist in shepherding the younger students out of the hall. The ache only grew as she was finally left alone with the young adults she helped shape, for better or worse. Her eyes stung as she let herself take a quiet moment to take them all in, anything to delay the inevitable. Minerva took a shuddering breath. All through getting dressed she’d outlined a speech in her head but now, standing in front of them, the words only felt cold and hollow. 

She cleared her throat once more. “As you know, all throughout the history of the Triwizard Tournament, a witch or wizard’s participation has been voluntary…” Dread seeped into Minerva’s veins as she searched the crowd of students once more. “That was, however, until last tournament where there was outside interference with the Goblet of Fire.” Each world felt poisonous on her tongue. 

Minerva felt the crack in her stony façade. None of this was fair, none of this was right. “The Ministry has taken it upon themselves to make sure that cannot happen again.” Bile flirted at the edge of her esophagus while her soft blue eyes watered with unshed tears. She couldn’t ignore the crack in her voice as she hammered in the final nail of the coffin. “Much to my deep gnawing regret, they have ruled that entry for all students seventeen and above is mandatory.” It felt like barbwire was strangling Minerva’s heart as her foundation finally crumbled at the horrified gasp of her students. It was a death rattle to her ears. Tears burned down her cheeks as she finished in a broken whisper. “I’m sorry that I’ve failed you.”

The harsh slam of the Great Hall doors crackled through the tense atmosphere. 

Harry’s footsteps were violently percussive against the ancient stone tile. He ran like he was being hunted. He needed to hide. He needed to escape. Wind and static howled in his ears as he forced the front doors open with all his might. His limbs ached and his lungs burned but he continued to run on the dew slicked grass to wherever safety lied.

Harry finally collapsed on the bank of the Great Lake. The cold wet of the sand against his denim clad knees did nothing to alleviate the fire coursing in his veins. He was on all fours desperately ignoring the desire to retch into the gravel below. His throat stung from the contrast between the crisp morning air and his own body heat as he caught his breath and pushed himself upright. His pulse throbbed in head as his thoughts whirled distortedly around him. The soft thump of familiar footsteps behind him was barely cognizant while he tried to stay in his own body.

The frantic call of his name was muffled, like his ears were stuffed with cotton wool. A blur of dark robes bordered in rich scarlet swept past his peripheral vision. Before he could connect the dots, short brown arms squeezed out the air refilling his lungs in a ferocious hug. Soft frizzy curls pressed into his nose. He took a deep breath and let the familiar scent of pomegranate wrap around him like a fleece blanket. The scent was home.

The dam of his self-control finally burst in the comfort of Hermione’s arms. He returned the rib-crushing embrace as tears flooded his face and he sobbed loudly into the witch’s shoulder. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The war was over. What was the fucking point of his childhood being sacrificed if the threat of danger still loomed, taunting them as they were still picking up the pieces from those they lost? For fuck’s sake, he had fucking _died_ and fought against the Veil’s tantalizing peace and warmth to return to those he loved. 

Harry’s body continued to convulse in despair. They had almost lost each other so many times along the way, yet there was no guarantee that still couldn’t happen. Anxiety, sorrow, and rage wove together in his body. He hugged Hermione even tighter and felt the shorter witch’s muscles flex as she tried not to buckle beneath his weight. She matched his anguished cries with subtle painful sobs of her own. 

There was a sturdy weight pressing into Harry’s side as Ron stretched his freckled scarred arms to envelope the two. The taller wizard’s modest sniffles were muffled by Harry’s black curls. 

The world around them faded as the trio stayed nestled together, mourning the loss of a carefree final year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was rough to write. The title of the chapter comes from the song "Not" by Big Thief because it's been harder for me to write Harry but something about that song finally clicked and I had a soundtrack for Harry's angst lol. I know this chapter is not a fun one but next one should have a little bit more lightness to it since we're finally getting to the introduction of our champions.


End file.
